American Family Story
by chrissie0707
Summary: Tag for 12X04 "American Nightmare." It was too easy; he knew it was too easy. Where his family is involved, Dean doesn't go down without one hell of a fight, and the silence sitting between them in the Impala screams volumes about all the things he didn't – and won't – say.


**American Family Story**

There's still no music playing in the car when Dean hooks the wheel toward the interstate exit fifteen minutes after leaving the Petersons'.

He'd had a feeling already, but that's what really tips Sam off.

 _I hate it. But I get it, I do._

It was too easy; he _knew_ it was too easy. Where his family is involved, Dean doesn't go down without one hell of a fight, and the silence sitting between them in the Impala screams volumes about all the things he didn't – and won't – say. Sam's big brother is a creature of habit, and they're well into the downward spiral of some of his worst.

After two days of whiskey-soaked, mostly-silent moping around the bunker, Dean had jumped immediately onto the witch lead on this hunt, called dibs on pulling the trigger and everything. Wanting to spill blood, to _kill_ in the hopes of making his own pain go away. A concerning and sometimes frightening pattern of behavior he's exhibited before. And now he's thrown Sam a conversational bone only to swiftly go silent, resolved to keep his thoughts and feelings to himself until they're no longer an outwardly-apparent issue, crossing his fingers that his little brother's buying _anything_ he's selling.

He's not.

 _She obviously has zero interest in keeping this family together._

That's what this comes down to – what's important to Dean. _Family._ Something that's never quite meant the same thing to each of them, and yet has.

Sam hasn't exactly been the poster child for patience or healthy thinking the past week, but he can recognize that Dean is having an entirely different struggle than he is, trying to come to terms with what Mom had needed to do. Or, _felt_ she needed to do. And part of his brother's struggle – he has to admit – is due to his own past actions. His choices. He hadn't really sugarcoated that blow, either.

 _Well, you know, sometimes families do better after a little time apart._

Because you never really miss what – or who – you have, until they're not there to smack you around and embarrass you in front of girls and leave dirty socks in the bathroom sink.

 _We've both had times where we've needed time apart._

But that was Demon Dean. Bloodthirsty Mark of Cain Dean. Never _Dean_. Never Sam's big brother, who defines himself and his worth by his family, who would do and has done _anything_ to keep that family together. So Dean doesn't _really_ get it. He'd just rather his own issues not be on the main stage of serious conversation.

 _I'll try to be less of a dick about it._

Sam should have been able to nail down the translation earlier, easier: _Don't you worry, Sam. You won't hear another peep about it from me._

And around and around they go.

He sighs, props an elbow on the door and rubs at his eyebrow.

Dean's eyes tick over, sensing danger looming but too good a big brother not to check in. "Somethin' wrong?"

 _You tell me, man._ Sam takes his time in choosing his words, but it's been a hell of a day. He's exhausted emotionally and physically, and his head is _pounding_ , and so he botches it. "You sure you're okay?"

"With?" Dean asks, eyes wide and stretching out the word like he can use it to buy more time.

Sam throws up a hand, uses the gesture as a means of encompassing this latest influx of crazy-ass shit in their lives. "Everything, man. Anything."

His brother doesn't answer right away, gaze shifting back and forth between Sam and the road like he's afraid to take his eyes off of either one too long. Like he's unsure which is the bigger threat.

"I'm great," Dean finally returns, flatly and not at all convincing, with a pinched look that says a detour into oncoming traffic maybe wouldn't be the _worst_ thing.

"You're pretty quiet," Sam pushes. "It's…it's just quiet."

Dean rolls his eyes and leans toward the dash, fiddles with the radio dials. "Sorry, you're right. Maybe I can find some old-school Vince Vincente for you, Sam."

Sam lets it go, and lets Dean go through the motions of settling on whatever radio station he thinks will annoy his brother the most, something with too much bass and drum. "Sometimes, I just wish I knew what was going on in your head."

When he sits back against the bench seat, Dean's grip on the wheel is too tight and his posture screams of tension – shoulders so high, they're up near his ears. "I don't know why you have to assume there's _anything_ going on."

Sam doesn't bother to sugarcoat this one, either. "Dude, you almost pumped an innocent woman full of witch-killing bullets."

Dean cocks his head in that way he has that absolutely _infuriates_ Sam. "Still got her number."

Sam shakes his head in frustration and directs his gaze out of the window, watches the autumn-kissed trees pass by. This act Dean's putting on right now…it's almost like he has information Sam doesn't, that he's trying to protect.

 _She took some cash and a cell phone she doesn't answer, and she bailed on us._

He frowns, thinking back on the specifics of his brother's complaint. _A cell phone she doesn't answer._ "Have you called her?"

"Who, Beth? Dude, that was only like half an hour ago. I've been with you the entire time. Plus, you know, witches." Dean gives an exaggerated shudder.

Sam won't be so easily shaken off the scent. "No, Dean, _Mom._ "

"Oh. No." Dean's thumb _pat pats_ against the steering wheel, horribly off the beat of the drum riffs in the song. "I mean, not really."

Sam whirls on the bench, hooks his left leg up on the seat. "Not _really_?"

"I texted her," his brother confesses.

"And?"

"And what?"

"Wh – " For a second, Sam thinks he might _hit_ his brother if the jackass wasn't driving. "Did she text you _back_?"

Dean sighs, removing his right hand from the wheel to dig his cell phone out of his pocket. He quickly thumbs through the motions of unlocking the device, and tosses it onto Sam's lap without looking.

Sam stares down at the screen, at the messages there.

'Hi Mom, just checking in. Is MOM still okay or weird? Should I call you Mary?'

'Hey Dean, phone died. Didn't have a charger. Things are good. I'll always be MOM. Tell Sam I love you boys.'

His anger is what pushes to the forefront, exacerbated by the persistent roar in his skull. Jaw clenched, Sam raises his eyes back to his brother. "When were you gonna show this to me?"

Dean stares pointedly out the windshield. "I just did."

"Don't – " Sam bites his tongue, closes a fist around the phone. Dean is a creature of habit, and they're well into the downward spiral. "Don't start doing this again, man."

But it's already _happening_. On this hunt. The fact they were both wrong about what was going on with the Petersons isn't the point; the _disagreement_ is the point. That's the warning flare. They've had a good thing going, since the Mark of Cain left the picture, and this could easily be nothing to get worked up about. Or it could be the first domino in the line.

"Doing what?" Dean's eyes shift over, wide and daring.

 _This._ "Freezing me out. Deciding what I need to know and when I should know it." Sam swallows, tosses his brother's cell phone to the seat between them. "Look, Dean, I miss Mom, too – "

"I don't MISS her, Sam," Dean snaps. "I'm not friggin' four." He rolls his head on his neck, lets out a long, frustrated breath. "I just…I'm not friggin' four, you know? And that…that's what she wants." All without looking over at his brother, like that makes it easier to say.

Certainly doesn't make it any easier to hear. Sam sags in his seat. "Dean…"

His brother sucks in a breath, which is on par with saying _shut the hell up, Sam._ His fingers resume their tap against the steering wheel, this time finding the beat. "I just keep telling myself, we're not the ones with the raw end of this deal. You know?"

"Yeah, I know what you mean." Sam's fingers join Dean's, beating out a silent rhythm against the bench seat. After a long, weighted pause he offers, "Still kinda sucks, though."

Dean tilts his head and _chuffs_ a harsh exhale of agreement. Of _yeah, no shit._ He looks anxious and wired, and is bound to get lost in this funk if his brother can't haul him back out of it.

Sam's bouncing fingers hit his brother's cell phone, and he thinks a moment, corner of his mouth pulling up into a grin. "Dude."

"What."

"'I _s MOM still okay?_ ' Really?"

"Shut up."

* * *

 _A/N: I just wanted a little MORE from the end of that ep. Hope this satisfied for anyone else who was feeling the same. Now back into my little writer hobbit hole!_


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